


Monsters

by Egon



Series: We Are Monsters [1]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: BDSM, Dungeon Master Grillby, Fontcest, Incest, M/M, Masochism, POV Sans, Pedophiliac Undertones, Possessive Sans, Shame, Sibling Incest, limited Sans/Grillby, no action taken, plenty of thinking about it, self-punishment, suggested abuse of power
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-21
Updated: 2016-01-21
Packaged: 2018-05-15 09:23:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5780380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Egon/pseuds/Egon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sans contemplates his younger brother at play.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Monsters

**Author's Note:**

> Written January 1, 2016 when good monsters were asleep in their beds.

_hey paps, why don’t you come over here._

You grit your teeth, you watch him play with his ball.

_i want to show you something. yeah, it’ll only take a minute._

He’s so innocent. He’s carefree. He represents part of a new generation that has more hope than desperation, more determination than despair.

You don’t have to imagine what he looks like with his clothes off. He still lets you bathe him, although those times are probably going to draw to a close soon. He’s getting taller, his limbs are getting lankier, and soon he’ll feel shy about his body and not want to share it with you any more. And then what? He’s been taller than you since he was eight years old with a gap-toothed smile and the eagerness of growing into a role of protector and nurturer.

_i want to show you a game. i really think you’ll like it. and after we’re done, if you’ve been good, i’ll buy you a nice cream._

What the hell kind of person are you. You never thought of him like that before until just recently, when he’d start sharing his orange with everyone. You were younger than he was when you figured it out for yourself…. you were twelve, and just beginning to encounter the kind of power that would give Asgore pause. And here he’s almost fifteen and showing that magic off like he has no clue what it does or what it means.

_we hafta go somewhere inside though. you can’t play this game out here, buddy._

Those shirts do nothing. Less than nothing. It makes you even more aware of his soul, flickering and pulsating along to his pleasure, and he gets excited at the simplest things. You’ll probably make him wear some kind of body-suit soon to hide those bones and to hide that soul, and he’ll wear it, because you tell him to, and he’ll do anything you say. The slightest curtain concealing it from you makes you think about it even more, makes you imagine things.

You think so often about it when he’s happiest of all, and when he’s happiest of all, he’s not focused on you. But you want him to be. You want to be the only thing in the world that matters to him. His whole world. And so you imagine things when he’s happy, when his soul-fire dances. You imagine luring him away under false pretenses and taking the thing that naive little tease has been flaunting in front of you all this time. You don’t have to lure him, and you don’t have to lie, because you know he’ll do anything at all— anything you say— he trusts you that much. Maybe he won’t trust you that much when he’s older and knows more, and maybe it’s this enormous amount of trust and innocence that’s as big of a turn-on. But the daydreams, those sick, horrible, wicked daydreams, seem to matter more when you’re getting a little bit of power back from him.

You’d do anything for him, your sweet, innocent brother. You’d destroy anyone who made him unhappy, anyone who got between you two. You want to think you’re the kind of person who could be happy with his happiness, but really, you’re the kind of person that is mostly or only contented if you’re the thing that makes him most happy— You want his happiness to be your happiness, but you want his happiness to come from you. ‘You deserve it,’ your twisted mind says. ‘You want him to be happy; isn’t it fair that it should make you happy too in the process? Shouldn’t your happiness be his happiness instead? Shouldn’t you be able to have him?’

That you’re seeing orange at all means his body is ready. No matter what anyone says, you were an adult at twelve, and he’s an adult at fourteen-almost-fifteen. That’s what your bodies say. That’s what your body says. It says ‘he needs to learn the same things you learned, and you can teach him’.

_let’s go somewhere dark. that way we can see each other’s souls better. they get pretty bright, don’t they? hey, did you know you can touch it? you can touch it, and it won’t hurt you. you won’t die. you’ll feel good, papyrus._

He can trust you, but he shouldn’t. You’re a wolf in sheep’s clothing. You’re a ticking time bomb. You’re a loose cannon. He’s sweet, sweet temptation, and you’re an addict who has a limited ability to say ‘no’ at the best of times, and the only way this is going to end is with tears and hurt. It probably tastes better with the manipulation. It probably feels divine to be able to touch another person like that.

Whenever it gets too tough, you wind up at Grillby’s in his basement, methodically beaten down until your one HP throbs and your vision is ringed with bright blue. One HP, and you enjoy nothing better than getting it as close to gone as possible. It would satisfy a kind of itch that should never be scratched, more than an impulse, more than a suicidal urge, but an urge to bleed, to feel, to ache the guilt away. You crave the sharp sting of abrasions and the reverberating thrum of whiplashes, a dull pain of punches and hits—

You’re the kind of person who wants what he can’t have and then gets upset about futility.

You’re the kind of person that then goes and dangles the prize right in front of himself.

You’re a masochist, you’re a fucking masochist. You’re an abuser, budding. You want to abuse his trust, and his body, his spiritual, his emotional innocence, you want to abuse your body down to zero and taste stillness and silence, you want to abuse time and space for a relative who never existed, and everything you do seems to hurt everyone around you, including yourself.

_c’mon, i took mine off, you show me yours now._

Your hand grips inside your chest around your heart. Blue, throbbing, pulsating, electric and light.

_i’m going to make you feel so good._

Warm wet ooze, slick between your fingers, trailing down your forearm, wetting your pelvic floor, your whole pelvis, and down the spine.

_papyrus~_

Grillby gripping you hard, leather gloves and a dark room, the single bare bulb swinging wildly and lighting the situation starkly. Your neck is compressed so much in his hands that you can’t talk at all. You pant and drool—

_papyrus—_

He’s playing with the ball and looking up to you, your eyes hooded and hidden. You smile and wave. And he waves back. And you put your hand back down again and you don’t tell him to come closer, to come inside, to see this thing you want to share with him.

Sooner or later, you’re going to break. It’s going to happen eventually because your will isn’t exactly the strongest in the world, although it feels like it sometimes.

You think about sharp staccato smacks in the face, stinging pain that leaves no mark. You dream about gently coaxing Papyrus to pull his shirt off and then his shorts. You dream about the sweet things you’ll say to him as you run your hands down his body, no soap, no water. You dream about orange, and the way he must taste on your fingertips. You think about the kind of grips on your collar bone that leave you gasping and light-headed with agonies close to crippling. You dream about the way he trusts you.

You watch him play catch, and think about those long, nimble fingers fitting broad hands, think about the way he’ll grow and grow until he’s fixed his final height and all of this gawkiness will translate into handsomeness. You think about the way things have changed and the way things are the same despite everything.

You think about luring him inside, into the darkened house, the couch within reach, the deadbolts, using his shirt as the bindings, the way he wouldn’t resist, not for you, not even if this happened. You think about defiling something so pure and perfect for your own selfish needs.

God, what is wrong with you.

You clench your fists and try to watch. Cold snowy day. Strong cross-winds. His scarf is being methodically undone by the wind’s persistent fingers, and you want to run over and loop it back around his neck over and over again until it is a collar and a sign. And he is still playing. Still growing. Still young. So young, and so innocent.

You think about lures.

You think about being strapped down to a wooden vertical table, seeing a little of what was in store for you, and having no clue at all. You think about the kind of work that makes you forget how to dream, and the kind of pain that makes you forget how to think.

You think about excuses, and promises, and the things you’d tell him once you established your control over him.

You think of what he’d be like five years down the road; if his enthusiasm would remain. If his energy would remain. If his love would remain. If his attraction would remain, soft-edged and simple and innocent.

You can’t touch yourself anymore without thinking about him. What is wrong with you? The experience just isn’t the same without imagining him under you, imagining the control, imagining the act itself. It occurs to you just as much when you’re inside, a simpler matter of just locking the door right. Just swinging over and locking the door and locking him in with a lust-monster. You’re not safe for him, you’re not good.

His eyes twinkle. Life is so apparent, so abundant, in every single move he makes, and you want to siphon it off him greedily. He completes you. He always has. The moment he was made it filled a hole that had only disquieted you before. Now the thought of not being with him makes you sick the way the thought of touching him ought to.

Some times, you have to do it two or three times a day. Other times, you can space it out over the weeks, even an odd month-gap or so. The spotty record only seems to say you can’t keep a promise to yourself, you have poor impulse control, you are going to do it eventually.

Everyone thinks you’re pretty responsible, all these jobs and taking care of raising him. If you were responsible, you wouldn’t be around the temptation every single day. That’s just asking for you to make a move. One touch sustains; one touch makes you burn for a hundred more.

“paps—“

He turns to look at you, his ball-cap jauntily backward in a way that’s a good twenty years out of date, his toy tucked under an arm. You’re trembling, you need, you’re terrible, you’re broken, you want so badly— And in those eyes is warmth and curiosity and trust and amusement and obedience. Just give him the word, Sans, and you can ride the slow train straight to hell—

Not yet. Not now. God, you want it. You want it so badly. Not now.

_i can make you feel good._

_did that feel good? i wanted to take care of you. i’ll always be there for you, little bro._

_i just want to touch you. forever. together, we’re perfect. you’re perfect, papy._

_i’m so lucky to have you. and you were so good… you were so good for me._

Not yet.

Not now.

Soon.


End file.
